Painkillers.

"I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it" - Audre Lorde.

I am guilty of robbing myself, I have been for as long as I can remember. But ironically, it is not the sort of robbery one may think of. It is not the perpetrator snatching valuables away from the victim, a fire of hunger dancing in his eyes. No, it is nothing like that.

Instead, it is dark and chilly inside the room, the very crime scene. The fireplace stands isolated, unfamiliar with the homily feeling of a fire burning inside it even on a late December night. The scene looks more like that of a treaty being signed than one of thievery. Without breaking the vow of silence, the sufferer hands all their possessions away with what looks to be a practiced smile. The smile screams all but one thing, this has happened way too many times. The thief nods compassionately as though he may know what he's taking; a part of someone's soul away. As if he knows nothing will ever be the same again, but it is okay for some reason. It must be done. He was taught this long ago, this is how the story goes, there is no changing this. No one who tried to change the ending ever succeeded.

And if you're wondering, it hurt the thief no less, if not more, than it hurt the victim.

In my story, I am both the thief and the victim. It is a dilemma to be aware of the existence of both the hero and the villain in the same body.

I remember it much like a childhood memory when I robbed myself of this myth called painkillers because there is no such thing as pain killers. The pain is there to stay no matter how much we pretend otherwise. I refuse to believe that it can be numbed that easily, that I stared in the mirror for hours trying to find the version of myself that wasn't altered by chronic pain when it could all just be okay by some pill

But no, even as I run my hands across the keyboard to type these words, I know there is more to this truth. And it is that I do not want to know what it feels like to taste the absence of pain only at the tip of my tongue and never know how it would've felt had it reached my throat, the sore parts of my existence. So it is only fair that I protect myself from the very longing of it...or perhaps its existence altogether.

After all, we can not dream of things we do not know of.

But little did I know, this habit of stealing from myself would quietly seep into the mundanity of my life. Now much too often, I catch myself giving things up like the pillow I sleep on, the ring that reminds me of aimlessly roaming in grocery stores and making puns out of product names, the last sip of my favorite drink.

I catch myself distributing my share of succor so I don't get used to a thornless existence - where humans are destined to get exactly what their heart craves.

But in a manner, I am protecting myself. I am guarding myself against any beautic delight because I do not know how to light up the fireplace on a lonely December night once warmth has whispered its goodbye's to me. But I do know how to shut my doors up tight so the warmth does not enter and I don't have to go through the suffering of feeling its absence.

I have gone through this story way too many times to not have learned that the only way to not fall prey to it is to not read it.

To simply pretend like it does not exist.

...Up until it comes to bite me in the dark.